


Practically a Fairy Tale

by Laylah



Category: Final Fantasy XII, Suikoden V
Genre: Comrades, Crossover, Dragon Horses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 19:29:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lord Rasler en Kuldes, like many of the Island Nations people, is broad-shouldered for his height, sturdy, sun-bronzed; like many of his own line, he wears formality with no little impatience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Practically a Fairy Tale

Nightmare tosses her head, hissing, rolling her eyes. "Hush," Vossler says, tugging on her ear to remind her to hold still. He can't blame her for her unease -- there are far too many people on the docks, and the bright Estrise sun is too hot for either her black scales or Vossler's black armor to be comfortable -- but the dragon cavalry is here on official business; they have a queendom to represent. He lets go of Nightmare's ear and she snorts at him, but holds still. "Good girl," he says. "Why can't you be more like Tournesol, mm? _He's_ doing fine."

"You'd lose your patience with a lazy bastard like Sol in five minutes, and you know it," Basch says. He has both hands buried in the thick gold of Tournesol's ruff, and the stallion has his eyes half-closed with pleasure as Basch scratches. "Isn't that right, you big freeloader?"

"Griiiink," Tournesol agrees, and then a fanfare from the docking ship brings dragon horses and riders both to attention.

Lord Rasler en Kuldes, like many of the Island Nations people, is broad-shouldered for his height, sturdy, sun-bronzed; like many of his own line, he wears formality with no little impatience -- he is ignoring the courtier who stands at his side, and he has left the top buttons of his dress coat undone. Another barbarian, Vossler thinks, and manages to keep the smile from his face. Falena has been well served by Island Nations barbarians in the last few generations.

He and Basch step forward, Nightmare and Tournesol pacing beside them, and the townspeople melt out of their way. "Welcome to Falena, your lordship," Vossler says. "I am Vossler Azelas, and this is Basch Ronsenburg, of the Feitas River Dragon Cavalry. At the request of her majesty Ashelia, we are here to escort you to the capital."

Lord Rasler smiles, dazzling and young. "Are those dragon horses?" He breaks rank with his soldiers and courtiers, crossing toward them.

"Slowly, my lord," Basch cautions, as Vossler steadies Nightmare with a hand on her neck. "Let them get to know you first."

Tournesol stretches out, snaking around Basch to bite Lord Rasler's coat, and the boy laughs. This one, Vossler thinks, might actually keep Ashe interested.

*

By the time they've reached Estrise's city gates, Basch finds himself so thoroughly won over that it's almost a shame Lord Rasler isn't courting _him_. The boy is quick of mind, curious, inquiring after everything from Estrise's trade specialties to the origin of the panther device tooled into the leather of Basch's jerkin. He would be no decorative consort, unfit to advise his queen, nor an inept commander, to leave the Queen's Knights to fend for themselves. He wears his sword easily -- more easily than his formal dress, which he begins to shed piecemeal as they leave the city, until he is walking down the road in shorts, sandals, and a sleeveless shirt as blue as the Falenan sky.

"Relax, Jaron," he says, when his adviser would protest. "We're only traveling today. I promise I'll put my best manners on when we reach Sol-Falena."

"Not if you want to impress Ashe, you won't," Basch says.

"Basch," Vossler warns.

"It's true," Basch protests. "You know as well as I do that she has no patience with the formalities of court."

Vossler doesn't smile, not quite, though he has to busy himself momentarily with coddling Nightmare to manage it. "I didn't hear you giving such helpful advice to that boy from Armes last month."

"He was a ponce," Basch says. "Scared of the dragon horses." Granted, that had a lot to do with Nightmare going after him as if the fancy silver scaling on his costume made him some new exotic sort of fish, but the fact remained.

Rasler laughs. "I see how it is," he says. He lays a hand on Tournesol's withers calmly, comfortably. "I need to make friends with you, so that you'll convince your knight to help me win the hand of the princess. It's practically a fairy tale."

Tournesol headbutts him. "Grank."

"Sol's the easy one," Basch says. "Now, if you could get Nightmare to coo at you, _that_ would mean something."

"I'll keep that in mind," Rasler says, looking from the gold to the black. "Will you be riding, now that we're out of the city?"

"Once we get to the river," Vossler says. "The boat you'll be taking travels by flowing rune, so we'll want the dragon horses to be fresh, if they're to keep up." He tries to be the serious one, but the fondness on his face when he looks at Nightmare gives him away. "Of all Falena's natural creatures, not even the beavers can swim faster, but a boat with a flowing rune is still a challenge."

"I look forward to seeing them, and you, in action," Rasler says. "Do you expect trouble, or is my honor guard a mere formality?"

The worst trouble, if it came, would be from the outlaw militias that still agitate for a return to the feudal senate of Ashelia's grandmother's time, before the Sun Rune War. But they've had no word of the militias stirring for months now. "There's always danger in traveling the deep channels of the Feitas," Basch says instead. "But you must be no stranger to the nasty things that swim in the depths."

Rasler smiles, boyish and excited, and Basch suspects that the way his hand comes to rest on the pommel of his sword is entirely subconscious. "Indeed not," he says. "I was twelve the first time I helped to fell a water dragon."

"Good," Vossler says. "A strong sword arm would serve you well here."

*

The spray of water against his skin is familiar, even if the Feitas River smells nothing like the sea off Obel's coast. Rasler leans off the starboard side of the boat and squints into the wind, giddy with their speed as they skate over the surface of the water. And yet despite their incredible speed, the dragon horses are keeping up -- if he looks off to port, he can see the spray-smudged golden blur of Basch and Tournesol, and just ahead to starboard the dark figure of Nightmare cuts through the water with Vossler low over her neck. It looks amazing, the way they surge across the water as though they can run as easily on the river as on land.

The boat rocks with a sudden impact, and Rasler clutches at the rail to keep from going over. He can see Vossler wheeling Nightmare around, drawing his sword, before the surface of the water even splits with the rise of -- of something like a salamander, grown to the size of a dragon and rearing back with its gills fanned in threat. Rasler draws his sword, and then the deck shudders under both Nightmare and Tournesol landing heavily on the planks.

"Anything I should know?" Rasler calls, raising his sword to deflect the salamander's first strike.

"Use lightning if you have it," Basch orders, "and else, save your spells."

Rasler nods, and strikes out at one of the creature's flailing arms. He's never had much skill with magic. The runes feel slippery in his hands, and uncooperative.

Basch and Vossler seem to feel likewise, to judge by their attacks: they fight on dragon-horseback, charging in for vicious strikes that come half from their bright flashing swords, and half from the heavy webbed claws or sharp ragged teeth of their steeds. The salamander bellows, and lashes out with its tail, swiping at all of them together. This time Rasler can't parry the attack, and staggers, but the pain is less than he feared it would be.

He readies himself for another attack, this time with the one rune he _does_ employ regularly: the Falcon, honing all his senses to crystalline sharpness as he strikes. The force of the blow leaves him reeling, his arms numb as he jumps back from the salamander's pained thrashing.

Basch and Vossler dismount, light-footed, and Basch strikes first, swords flashing in the light. Vossler carries a single blade, but a larger one, cleaving deep so that milky green ichor wells from the beast's wounds. It roars, shaking its head, and strikes out at Basch -- who sidesteps almost too fast for Rasler to see, and lashes out with his shortsword before the salamander can pull back.

The two of them exchange glances as the monster gathers itself for another attack. "Now," Vossler says, and Basch nods.

They lunge forward in tandem, their swords a dancing pattern of strike and double-strike, so cleanly timed it's as though one will moves them both. When they leap back -- matched even in that -- the salamander falls, thrashing over the side and into the water, with only a trail of its vile fluids left behind.

Vossler reaches out as if by instinct and lays a steadying hand on Basch's arm. Basch looks over at him and smiles, the expression warm and open and intimate. _Oh_, Rasler thinks. The moment passes quickly, but not before he can recall one of his favorite lines from the works of Elanor Silverberg: _The man fights best who fights for what he loves. His courage is made more steadfast and his arm more valiant thereby._

When Basch and Vossler look up, Rasler smiles at them both. "You are unharmed?" Basch asks.

"A bit bruised, but nothing serious, thanks to you," Rasler says, and bows. "Falena's defenders do her proud."

*

Vossler thinks perhaps he should have expected as much of a boy from the Kuldes line, but Rasler seems nothing short of delighted by the trouble they've encountered. Once they're underway again, Vossler can see him on the deck of the boat, demonstrating the battle's more exciting moments for his long-suffering counselor, and whenever he catches Vossler or Basch looking at him, he lifts a hand in salute. It looks as though he's trying to replicate both parts of their finishing combination, all fast, excitable movements.

"Can't get too hasty, though, can we?" Vossler says. "He'll need to be a diplomat at least as much as a warrior, if he's to do Ashe any good."

Nightmare flicks an ear back at him. "Grank?"

"Nothing," Vossler says, patting her neck to reassure her. "Just talking to myself."

She tosses her head, shaking her reins to tell him how silly he's being.

By the time they reach Rainwall, the sun is going down, and Vossler is glad to see the end of the day's riding. Tomorrow will be easier, at least, and they're not likely to encounter another zadom king between here and Sol-Falena.

Lord Rasler continues to acquit himself well in town: he asks about the statue of Luserina Barows on the great steps, and recognizes her name when it's mentioned; he follows them to the stables to see Nightmare and Tournesol safely put up for the night; he compliments the food at the inn, and his appetite bears out his words; and he holds his own for quite some time in a game of ritapon before losing to Vossler with good nature and grace.

"I like him," Basch says when they retire to their room -- opposite Lord Rasler's, and overlooking the stables.

"I can tell," Vossler says, unbuckling his armor and shrugging free of it. "If the princess likes him half so well as you do, I imagine he'll never leave."

Basch laughs as he kicks his boots off. "Jealous?"

"Never," Vossler says, though it certainly doesn't hurt that when he pulls off his shirt he can see Basch's eyes following his movements. "He's more interested in Sol than he is in you, anyway."

"You wound me." Basch sprawls across one of the beds dramatically. "Come offer me comfort."

Vossler steps out of his trousers before he comes over. The bed creaks beneath his weight. "You'll need to wipe that smirk off your face if you want your pleas for comfort to sound convincing."

"I'll have to remember that. It's a good thing I have you to look after me," Basch says, and pulls Vossler down for a kiss.

It's been a hard day of riding, but not so hard that he can't enjoy this -- the fit of their bodies together, the slide of flesh on flesh in the dark, the soft breathy sounds of pleasure. The breeze from the window is cool, and heavy with the scent of apple blossoms. Basch's skin tastes like the sweet waters of the Feitas.

Afterward, Vossler falls asleep with one arm flung across Basch's chest, with the beat of Basch's heart steady under his hand.

*

Basch wakes first, and slides out of bed carefully, so he won't wake Vossler. He's always been the first to rise, of the two of them. Vossler sleeps as late as he can get away with, and on leave days sometimes doesn't get out of bed until midday. Fortunately for them both, he also sleeps heavily, so Basch can dress and leave without waking him.

The inn is quiet, this early. Down in the marketplace, no doubt people have risen, but the traveling merchants and traders who tend to stay here have no need to hawk their wares at dawn. Basch makes his way downstairs, and slips out the back door, toward the stables.

He's not the only one there, he sees when he arrives. Rasler has already come down, and is standing in front of Nightmare's stall, trying to coax her into coming closer. Tournesol is fidgeting in the next stall, restless, scratching at the door. Basch leans against the doorway to watch. Rasler's clever, but he probably doesn't have the experience to know that means he needs to be wary. He's too focused on Nightmare, who is responding, if coyly, stretching out her neck until she's almost close enough for him to reach the ruff under her chin.

Tournesol leans over his stall door and starts chewing on Rasler's hair.

The boy jumps, and Basch can't help but laugh. "You have to keep an eye on him," he says. "She's difficult, but he's a pest." He walks over, and Tournesol lets Rasler go in favor of headbutting Basch in the chest. "Yes, you big monster. I'm talking about you." Basch reaches up to scratch behind Tournesol's ears.

"This quest gets more complicated by the minute," Rasler says with a wry little smile. "Now I have to be wary of him so I can still get close to her, so that winning her favor will earn me a good word from the knights, so the princess might be favorably disposed toward me."

"I've no doubt you're up to the task," Basch says. "There, see?"

Now that Rasler has turned away, Nightmare has edged up to the door of her stall, watching him, her head cocked to the side. Tournesol coos at her. She snorts.

"Good morning," Rasler says to her, his voice gentle, and reaches out again. Nightmare tosses her head so her ruff shimmers, iridescent, but she doesn't pull away when Rasler strokes beneath her jaw. "You're beautiful."

Basch smiles. "I was planning to go down to the docks this morning to get them some breakfast," he says. "There should be fishermen bringing in the night's catch by now. Care to join me?"

"Can I help you feed them?" Rasler asks. He steps back from Nightmare slowly, and keeps watching her until she shakes her head and retreats.

"I don't see why not," Basch says, and watches Rasler's face light up.

If there's time, in Sol-Falena, perhaps he'll offer to take Rasler for a ride.


End file.
